Donnie was shaking like a man with DTs, though it hadn't been all that long since his last drink. He'd been allowing himself a shot every hour since Fourcade had left him, in an attempt to steady his nerves. All it seemed to be doing was acting as an accelerant for the stress eating a hole in the lining of his stomach. The flecks of blood in his vomit had confirmed that suspicion.

After Fourcade's first visit, he had passed out in the bathroom and dreamed of Pam. Dark hair and shining eyes. A sunny smile. A tongue like a pit viper. Hands tipped with claws that dug into him, closed around his balls, and choked his masculinity. He loved her and he hated her. She had grown up and he never wanted to. Life had seemed best when he was twenty, when he had the world by the tail and no responsibilities. Now the world had him by the tail.

Then suddenly Fourcade had him by the scruff of the neck, and Donnie found himself going down face-first into a swirling pool of vomit. Startled, he tried to grab a breath half a second too late, filled his mouth, and came up choking and retching.

"Yeah, you choke on it," Fourcade growled. He bent his body over Donnie's, all but riding him into the porcelain. "That's what your lies taste like the second time around."

Donnie spat into the toilet bowl. The smell of fresh urine was strong as his bladder let go. "Jesus! God!" he gasped and spat again, trying to clear the cold chunks of vomit from his mouth.

"Where were you tonight?" Fourcade demanded.

"You're crazy!"

Nick shoved his head back in the bowl. "Wrong answer, Tulane! Where were you tonight? Where'd you get that mud on your boots?"

"I told you!"

"Don't fuck with me, Donnie. I'm in no mood. Where were you?"

"I told you!" Donnie cried. Tears streamed down his face through the puke on his cheeks. "I don't know what you want from me!"

"You're gonna give me the keys to your car, Tulane. And I'm gonna look through every inch of it. And if I find a rifle, I'm gonna bring it back in here, stick it up your ass, and blow your brains out. Are we clear on this?"

Donnie dug his keys out of his jeans pocket and tossed them on the floor. "I didn't do anything!"

"You better pray to God that's the truth, Donnie," Fourcade said as he bent to scrape up the keys. " 'Cause I don't think you'd know the truth if it bit your dick off."

Terrified and sick, disgusted with himself, Donnie forced himself to his feet and followed Fourcade out to the garage, grabbing a kitchen towel as an afterthought to wipe the mess from his face. He watched from the doorway as Fourcade popped the trunk on the Lexus and dug through the junk-a bag of golf clubs, a nail gun, a filthy Igloo cooler, gloves, crumpled receipts, a toolbox, half a dozen, baseball caps with the Bichon Bayou Development logo.

"You know, you're just as rotten as everybody says, Fourcade," he declared. "You don't have a warrant. You got no call to treat me like this. You're not a cop; you're a goddamn jackbooted thug. I shoulda let you rot in jail."

"You gonna wish you had, Tulane, if I find anything in this car to hook you up with taking a shot at Annie Broussard last night."

"I don't know what you're talking about. And why should you care about Broussard?"

"I got my reasons." He closed the trunk and moved to the passenger's side doors. "You know, you're right for once, Donnie. I'm not a cop, I'm on suspension. That makes me a private citizen, which means I don't need a warrant to seize incriminating evidence. Ain't that a kick in the head?"

"You're trespassing," Donnie declared as Fourcade pulled open a back door.

"Me? Trespassing in the home of my good friend who bailed me outta jail? Who would believe that?"

"Is there any law you won't break?"

He shut the door and strolled back toward Donnie, shining the light in Donnie's face. "Well, I'll tell you, Tulane, me, I believe life is a journey of self-exploration, and lately I'm discovering that I have a greater concern for justice than I have for the law. Can you appreciate the difference?"

He climbed the two steps to the kitchen door and snatched hold of Donnie's shirtfront before he could backpedal. "The law would dictate that I would have somebody else run you in tonight and interview you with regards to this shooting incident-"

"I didn't shoot anybody-"

"While justice would bypass the formalities and cut to the heart of the matter."

"It's not for you to be judge and jury."

"You left out executioner." He arched a brow. "Was that purposeful or Freudian? Not that it matters. I find it amusing that you bring the point up now, Donnie. You seemed to think it would have been just fine if I'd dispatched Renard to hell the other night. Now it's you standing on that line, and you'd just as soon I keep to the proper side of it. I'd call you a hypocrite, but I have my own problems with the black and white of it all."

He uncurled his fist from Donnie's shirt and took half a step back. "I'm gonna let you off with a warning, Tulane. I didn't find what I thought I might, but if I so much as hear a whisper or come across a hair that might connect you to this, I'll find you, Donnie, and I won't be in a philosophical mood."

The crazy son of a bitch.

Donnie had gone straight back into the bathroom after Fourcade left and puked again, then sat on the edge of the tub and stared at the streaks of blood in the bowl. Scotch, nerves, and imminent financial disaster were not a good mix.

He decided what he needed was a little something of the pharmaceutical variety to settle him down so he could think his way out of this mess. Old Dr. Hollier had obliged, sympathetic to the tragedy in his life. He didn't know the half of it, Donnie thought.

Lindsay Faulkner was dead and Fourcade knew about Marcotte.

With the bitch queen of Bayou Breaux gone, the way was clear to make a deal for the realty-except for one obstacle: Fourcade.

How could Fourcade have possibly known about that phone call? Paranoia had driven Donnie to an assortment of wild conclusions involving phone taps, all of which he had subsequently dismissed in a more sober moment. Fourcade knew only about a single call, last night's call, nothing else, and he was in no position to be in on any phone tap. He was suspended, awaiting trial. Assault charges. He'd nearly beaten Renard to death.

That particular reminder had Donnie reaching for the open bottle of Mylanta he'd wedged into his cup holder. Never should have paid that bail. He had started hoping Fourcade would be bound over for trial next week, and would be thrown back in jail, but Donnie's lawyer had informed him the detective's bail would likely be continued and he would be a free man indefinitely, trial pending or no.

Pam had always told him he acted first and considered consequences too late. He wondered if she had ever realized just how right she'd been.